


Dig Two Graves

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Variations on a Death [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Dish Best Served Cold, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Characters die, Clint reads, Dark, Graphic Violence, M/M, Not A Fix-It, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Revenge, Violence, be warned, like really really dark, no happy ending, the cycle of violence, vengeance, wergild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: “You loved him dearly, I can see.”“Love? Love is for children.” Clint could hear Natasha’s voice in his ear. “Phil Coulson was my soul; without him, I am nothing but a shell.”“Oh, Clinton.” She raised her hand, paused, then pushed back a strand of hair that had grown too long.  Then she rose to go, nodding to the book laying by Clint’s knee. “Have you finished the story?”“Funeral pyres and grieving widows. Yeah, I know how it ends.”
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Variations on a Death [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571656
Comments: 43
Kudos: 95





	Dig Two Graves

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second in Variations on a Death series. 
> 
> This is not a fix-it.
> 
> This is not a happily ever after. 
> 
> Be warned.
> 
> As the saying goes, before setting out on a path of revenge, dig two graves.

_Heavy stone right next to mine,_

_We'll be together 'til the end of time_

_Don't you go before I do,_

_I'm gonna tell the gravedigger that he better dig two._

_Better Dig Two_ by The Band Perry

  
  


“Coulson died taking on Loki… ” 

The world receded, spicy shawarma turning to dust in his mouth. 

“He was a good man ...” 

Blood pounded in his veins, pressure rising in his skull, heartbeat becoming a thumping bass in his ears. 

“Fury called it, said Phil got in one shot before …” 

Food fell from his lifeless grip, feet went numb, his tongue choking off any sound. 

“Loki picked the wrong people to piss off …”

Warmth drained from his chest, cold taking up residence, ice forming around his heart. 

“Barton? Clint? Are you …” 

He pushed back from the table, picked up his bow and limped away, the calls of the others fading.

Contrary to popular belief, Clint Barton was an educated man who read widely, from Brian Greene’s _Elegant Universe_ to Alton Brown’s cookbooks to Laurie King’s Mary Russell mysteries. His streaming queue was filled with documentaries and D.I.Y. shows, PBS’ _Nova_ and hard Sci-Fi. Wherever he went, he picked up books at second-hand stores, asked for recommendations, and loved to hear locals tell their favorite stories. The shelves in his apartment in Bed-Stuy had everything from _Beowulf_ in Old English to Orhan Pamuk’s _Snow_ to _Tales of Monkey_ in Mandarin. That the fact came as a surprise to everyone who visited said more about Clint’s aw-shucks Midwestern persona and the people’s biases than it did about Clint’s intelligence. 

Phil Coulson, on the other hand, loved trashy novels, terrible reality shows, and bad Syfy made-for-TV movies. He’d hide the latest James Patterson thriller in his desk drawer, pretend not to know who Kylie Kardashian was dating at the moment, and never admit to being addicted to _Dog Cops_. If pressed, he’d say it was because he spent his days reading briefs and mission overviews, waded through politics and crime scene reports and decade-old files for a living. In his free time, the last thing he wanted was more science that A.I.M. could pervert or poetic lines of iambic pentameter he had to decipher. The only exception was anything to do with Captain America and Peggy Carter; he voraciously consumed all texts about his heroes including comic books, dime novels, unauthorized biographies, and fanfiction. Any new publication was instantly purchased, read, and dissected with extensive marginalia and notes. The common assumption that Phil’s tastes ran to opera and high brow came from his love of a finely tailored suit and his own reluctance to share his interests. 

It was Clint who recognized Thor’s mythological heritage thanks to his fondness for the _Prose Edda_ and the _Kalevala_. He was the one who made the connection of the markings left behind the rainbow bridge and Old Norse runes. And it was Clint who understood the concept of wergild and knew exactly what he needed to do as the truth of Phil’s death hit home. 

So when Thor twisted the handle of the improvised device, Clint stepped forward and threw his arms around the Asgardian while they dematerialized. As they arrived in a room with gold leaf walls and soaring columns, he let go. 

“Barton?” Thor turned. “Why?” 

“I need to speak to your father,” Clint explained. “It’s the aggrieved party’s right, is it not?” 

“Indeed,” Thor said. “But, I don’t …” 

Clint ignored the flash of sympathy across the Prince’s face, his focus on the frozen blue of Loki’s eyes, cataloging the smallest movements, a half-wince that telegraphed surprise. 

“Then I officially request an audience with King Odin and Queen Frigga to discuss reparations for the damage Loki inflicted upon me.” 

Thor’s eyes widened. “I see; I will make the request in your favor.” 

Standing in front of the Asgardian court, King and Queen on the high dais, guards in golden armor, nobles dressed in a rainbow of finery, Clint didn’t even flinch. After the roar of the crowd and harsh glare of stage lights, the glowering censor and naked curiosity of the onlookers was no more than a mild niggle on the back of his neck. He was used to being the center of attention, all glitter and shine, always a performance, hiding his emotions behind a smile and a sweeping bow. Never let ‘em see you sweat, that was the Carson Traveling Circus motto, and it was required to survive in the cutthroat mercenary world where Clint had spent far too many years. What was a gaggle of semi-immortal, self-important Norse gods in the grand scheme of things?

Phil, on the other hand, would have hated every second of standing at the foot of the stairs, being forced to look up at Odin and be looked down upon by everyone else. He preferred going unnoticed, being an everyman who was so damn ordinary and forgettable. His superpower, they used to laugh, was a somebody else’s problem field that made eyes slide over him and his presence filtered out of memories. Being in charge wasn’t the issue; being the face out front wasn’t in Phil’s wheel well. As Fury always said, Phil was his hold card, the move no one saw coming … until Loki stepped up behind him and shoved a spear through his chest. 

“My son says you are a formidable warrior, one of the best of Midgard,” Odin said. “And you fought by his side against the Chitauri.” 

“I fought to save my world from Loki’s invasion,” Clint corrected. “An unprovoked attack that killed many and left my city in tatters.” 

A low murmur ran around the room at Clint’s words; Odin’s brow drew together, his one eye focusing more sharply on Clint. 

“Loki’s actions were not sanctioned by Asgard; much as we regret the damage done, the fault remains with him and he will be punished accordingly,” Odin replied. “If that is what you come to ask …” 

“I care not for politics or government machinations,” Clint said. “I am here for redress of Loki’s crimes against me and mine. Wergild, your majesty, for the death of a great warrior, felled not in battle but by a cowardly act of a bastard, dooming his soul to wander forever and never find the halls of Valhalla.”

More sounds from the onlookers, rustle of clothing and low whispers. 

“Be careful how you speak of my son,” Odin warned, leaning forward in his throne. “What proof do you have of this claim?” 

“A witness.” Clint turned to Thor. “The heir to the Throne of Asgard saw the whole thing.” 

“Is this true?” Odin demanded. “Did your brother do as this Midgardian says?”

“Aye,” Thor answered. “Loki tricked Phil and stabbed him in the back while I was forced to watch. Coulson’s death is upon my hands, Father. He was a good man, one I called friend.” 

Odin sat back and took in the new information. “To demand wergild, you must be wronged by the action,” he said to Clint. “What was this Son of Coul to you?” 

“My husband.” 

The voices rose and fell; Clint stood, unmoved, mask firmly in place. Thor reached out, but Clint didn’t respond to the overture. 

“Phil’s death is my fault and I would offer our aid. There are those who can find restless spirits, help them on their journey; I will engage them to search for him, ensure he finds peace,” Thor said. 

“As spouse of the aggrieved, you are entitled to restitution,” Odin agreed. “Name your price, Midgardian.” 

“Phil’s life can’t be measured in coins or gifts,” Clint declared. “Only blood for blood will suffice, a life for a life. Give me Loki’s head on a platter and we’ll call it even.” 

Outright gasps came from the audience, shuffling bodies as they crowded closer to see the outcome of Clint’s demand. Odin’s face grew stormy, a flash of lightning in the distance. 

“You dare suggest a royal son of Asgard is equal to a puny Midgardian?” he demanded. 

“I’ll state it plainly. The universe itself counts less than a day in Phil’s company; he was worth ten times more than that backstabbing piece of shit.” 

Guards lowered their pikes, people shouted, a maelstrom of anger surged in the room. Clint stood in the middle, unmoved. From her place on the dais, the Queen raised a hand; silence descended in the moments before she spoke. 

“Your grief is fresh” Her voice was kind and soft and yet carried through the cavernous space. “I can feel the residue of Loki’s magic about you, his assault upon your senses. To awake from his control to find your heart’s love taken … I cannot imagine the pain. Enough for today; you need time to pass through this darkness of the soul. When calmer heads can prevail, we will continue these proceedings.” 

Clint met her eyes, didn’t blink or shy away. Compassion, he saw there, and a measure of understanding. He nodded once, acquiesced to her suggestion, and took one step back. After all, he was trapped here; he had time.

They gave him a room, made some vague statements about tomorrow or next week or a month, then left him. Oh, he was under watch and there were definitely areas that were off-limits, but, for the most part, he did what he wanted and wandered first the palace then the city itself. Aside from Thor, who made an effort not to forget Clint’s presence, the others ignored him or outright went out of their way to avoid him. Not that it bothered Clint in the least; he was more than used to a solitary life and he preferred wallowing in his grief and anger to having to make nice. 

First thing he did was find a place to shoot and work out; the guard who wasn’t supposed to look like a guard but hung around the hallway outside Clint’s room was more than happy to escort him to the practice fields and training rooms. A simple request of the weapons master and Clint had his choice of gorgeous recurve bows, both short and long, and elegant crossbows. There were weights and bags and balance apparatus, obstacles courses and sparring rings, swords and throwing knives and staves. Plenty to keep his brain busy and exhaust his body so he could sleep for a couple of hours before the nightmares woke him. He started small, tested draws, didn’t push himself to his limits; there was no reason to let them know what he was capable of or give them reason to fear him. 

With a chunk of the day accounted for that way, he set out looking for a library; the maid who cleaned his room pointed him the right direction, introducing him to an archivist who showed him how to access not only the large room full of books but also the database of digitized knowledge. Clint started reading histories, picked out some poetry, earned a smile from the archivist when he asked for the _Song of the Volsungs_ , and filled up more of the long hours with reading. 

Between sweat and eyestrain, he explored. The palace was enormous with corridors that ran for miles and stairs that went nowhere. If someone stopped him, he nodded thanks and turned another direction, updating his mental map. The gardens were extensive and filled with benches in nooks and shady spots. He’d take a book with him and sit in the warmth, listening as people passed, until his presence was no longer noticed. Once out in the city, he found markets and shops and bars, the everyday flow of life the same everywhere. Thor accompanied him sometimes and made sure he had coin to spend; before long, the shopkeepers didn’t look twice, Clint in his new Asgardian clothes, blending in with the rest of the populace. 

It was eight days before he discovered the main entrance to prison level, another three before he found the kitchen access. Making no effort at stealth, he walked through the cells; behind the translucent force fields, he saw different races, alien bodies and faces. When he arrived at Loki’s holding pen, he stopped and stared, slipping into parade rest.

“Barton! I had wondered where you’d gotten off to. Enjoying your stay in our lovely city?” Loki rolled up from the bed, his voice as sickly sweet as a rotten peach. “Come to have your say?” 

He said nothing. 

“Oh, come now, you didn’t jump on Thor’s back to spend your days perusing ancient sagas,” Loki said. “Tell me everything.” 

Still, he stood silently. 

“Fine then,” Loki huffed. “You’re no fun at all.” 

A guard came a few minutes later and escorted Clint to the main hall. He didn’t turn back or give Loki a second glance as he left. 

And so it went, working out, learning everything he could, and keeping to himself. For however they’d let him, he’d visit the bastard, never speaking until someone came to remove him. It didn’t take long before he gathered an audience at the range; he’d moved on to heavier bows and added distance. Soon, they followed him to the gym and began asking questions about his routine, the krav magna and parkour and tai chi. A few weeks on, Thor took him to the stables, and they went riding in the countryside with Fandral and Sif. Archivists started suggesting books and showed him smaller, specialized libraries after a couple of months. The guard at the end of the hall went back to his regular post and others merely nodded as Clint came and went. 

But every day, he stood at Loki’s cell, watching silently; the guards eventually let him stay as long as he liked, only checking in on their rounds of the floor. At first, Loki laced his words with seduction, feeling out Clint’s sympathy for his plight. When that didn’t work, he shifted to the anger route, trying to get a rise from Clint. Sometimes Loki screamed and threw things, ordered Clint to leave; other times, he’d stare sullenly back, thinking to outlast Clint’s stony demeanor, but he always failed, usually pitching a fit when he did. 

Three days shy of what would have been six months on Earth, a shadow fell over Clint as he was reading in his favorite spot in the garden, the bench by the small pool with some sort of fish and a babbling waterfall. 

“ _The Tale of Finn_?” Queen Frigga said, tilting her head to make out the title on the spine. “Quite a story for such a beautiful day.” 

She glowed in the afternoon sun, rays filtering through the gold of her hair; Clint closed the book carefully and sat it aside. 

“We only have a fragment of the tragedy left; it’s different, the whole saga from beginning to end. Hildeburh is missing from the bit in _Beowulf_ and she’s the main character.” Clint rose “Would you like to sit?” 

She sank down, dress pooling around her and patted the other half. “Please, join me.” 

Not so much a request, but cloaked in one, so he sat. 

“I hear you visit my son daily.” She turned kind eyes Clint’s way. “I am surprised you would come near him after the injustice he did against you.” 

“There’s an old saying on Earth: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” Clint said. “I prefer knowing exactly where he is.”

“You do not trust us to keep our word.” She sighed. “I suppose it is deserved; we have done nothing but offer you more hurt. I would change that if I could. From what Thor has told me, your beloved was the greatest of men; it grieves me to know he is lost.” 

“That’s Phil; if he didn’t want you to find him, you wouldn’t.” Clint already knew Phil’s soul hadn’t been located; even the greatest of Asgard’s scryers and world walkers had failed. “Valhalla is your heaven, not ours.”

She contemplated the answer for a moment. “Yes, Midgard outgrew their belief we were gods. It was for the best, of course; we are far from perfect and too easily corrupted by that kind of worship. Loki was seduced by the power; Odin’s banishment of Thor set him on a better path.” 

Silence fell between them; Clint let it unspool, waiting for the question. When she asked, it was a different tact that he was expecting. 

“It will not bring him back,” she said, “nor take away the pain.” 

“I know.” Clint was surprised to realize his hands were trembling; he curled his finger over the edge of the bench and flattened his palms either side of his legs. 

“But you still want Loki’s death.” 

“I do.” 

Soft fingers covered his calloused ones. “We can never give you that.” 

“I know that too.” And he did. He’d always known. 

“Then why?” 

“When I was eighteen, my brother stood and watched as the man who trained us tried to kill me. At twenty, I had seven assassins on my tail. By twenty-three, I was wanted by half-a-dozen cartels and was in the Interpol’s top ten most wanted.” Clint swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat. “Then a man came along and gave me a chance, believed I could be more than a hired gun. He never gave up on me, no matter how much I fucked up, refused to leave me behind when others gave up. Hell, he’s probably waiting for me now so I don’t get lost again. I owe him the same; I promised for better or worse, in life and death. It’s the least I can do.” 

“You loved him dearly, I can see.” 

“Love? Love is for children.” Clint could hear Natasha’s voice in his ear. “Phil Coulson was my soul; without him, I am nothing but a shell.” 

“Oh, Clinton.” She raised her hand, paused, then pushed back a strand of hair that had grown too long. Then she rose to go, nodding to the book laying by Clint’s knee. “Have you finished the story?” 

“Funeral pyres and grieving widows. Yeah, I know how it ends.” 

A month or so later, a delegation from Alfheim passed through; Clint was quite the center of attention when they heard about his skill with the bow. He passed the days riding and shooting, drinking and listening, training and watching. After the negotiations were over, Clint found an increasingly large number of folks came to him for help or instruction. He taught shooting from horseback, acrobatic tumbling, and balancing exercises. The Warriors Three took him drinking and the prison guards struck up conversations about life on Midgard. No longer an interloper, he was a fixture around the palace and in the city; no one paid any mind to what he was doing or the questions he was asking. 

Even Loki stopped baiting him; somewhere along the way, Loki actually started talking about growing up in Thor’s shadow, Odin’s favoritism, discovering he was a Johtun, falling through space, confronting the Mad Titan, failing in his invasion of Earth. Maybe it was Clint’s stoicism or maybe Loki’s need to hear his own voice … whatever the reason, Clint wrote letters to Natasha and Nick filled with the information he learned. 

Three hundred and forty-six days after he arrived at Asgard, Thor came to tell him the Bifrost was almost repaired. A grand celebration was planned and Thor was alight with excitement at being able to see Jane Foster again. Everyone assumed Clint would return; they gave him gifts and tokens, helped him pack all the things he’d accumulated, and wined and dined him with hearty pats on the back and toasts to his prowess. 

Clint let them chatter. He encrypted the diary he’d been keeping, made one last trip up the mountain to the little grove around a hot spring, finished the expanded _Edda_ he’d been reading, and fletched the last batch of arrows with molted feathers from Huginn and Muninn. The resin was ready, only the oil itself remained untested but he’d have to take the chance. 

A week and a half later, he woke early like always and broke his fast with the guards; he spent his usual morning training and ate a light bite with Fandral and Hogun. Then he stopped by his room, picked up the simple wooden bow he’d been using, slung the quarrel over his back, and took the back stairs into the dungeon, timing the rotation so the fewest were on duty and scattered the furthest from his destination. 

Loki looked up when Clint came into view, his eyes lighting on the weapons. 

“Ah, they have you dancing to their tune, do they? Another exhibition of your …” 

The first arrow slipped through the force field, rowan coating negating the energy, and slammed into Loki’s throat, pushing him back against the wall and taking away his voice. 

The second caught his left arm above the wrist, the third the right, pinning him in place...

“Stop!” The first guards rounded the corner, swords drawn. 

The fourth sank into his gut, wicked metal barbs sharpened to tear flesh and organs. 

Bodies circled Clint on all sides

The fifth went through the eye socket and Clint didn’t feel anything. 

“Drop your weapon,” the lead guard, an affable fellow by the name of Aefled, said. “Please, Clint.” 

He held the sixth notched, string drawn and vibrating in his fingers. 

“Never again,” he said, “Pity is for children: it’s a life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot. Tell the Queen she need not grieve; that’s already taken care of.” 

The arrow flew true, burrowing into Loki’s brain, covered in mistletoe oil like the others. 

The bow clattered from Clint’s hand as the sword swung. 

Thor brought his body through the Bifrost along with an offering of peace from Queen Frigga and a harsh warning from King Odin. Caught up in politics, the World Security Council, and other threats, Director Pierce accepted the explanation and promised Thor that Midgard would continue to be an ally. The Avengers complained, but, truth told, Rogers and Stark and Banner hadn’t known Clint all that well and, despite their anger over Coulson’s death, Clint’s vengeance shocked them. Nick Fury cursed and swore he’d never trust an Asgardian again then gathered Hill and Sitwell and May and Hand and Blake; they took shots of rotgut whiskey and told stories about their friend’s exploits, Phil’s nerdiness, and Clint’s goofiness until they could blame the tears on being drunk. 

Natasha Romanoff watched it all without a word, not a shred of emotion on her stony face. 

“Barton brought her in,” they whispered. 

She stood vigil over his body as the coroners completed the autopsy. 

“He was supposed to kill her, but didn’t,” they said. 

When they were done, she took him and disappeared. 

“No one would take her as an asset but Coulson,” they repeated.

Three days later, a redhead was seen near Phil Coulson’s grave.. 

“They were more than a team; they were family, closer than that even. Strike Team Delta.”

Officially, Phil Coulson was buried in Arlington with full honors and is still there. Clint Barton was cremated, per S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol for those who die off-world, his ashes spread from the helicarrier over the ocean. 

But for the three who know, there are two graves in Ravalli County, Montana, just beyond a small cabin in the Bitterroot Mountains, the tombstones near a stream where trout are plentiful. A few times a year, a red-head stops at the tiny local store before heading up the rutted road; at Christmas, she lets the store’s owner harvest mistletoe to sell. She rents the place out to a tall black man with one eye who brings his rods and reels during peak season. And every now and then a non-descript guy visits, says they’re distant cousins through marriage; he’ll come down to the bar and hoist a few on a Friday night and talk about bow hunting with the locals. 

Natasha reappeared at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and went back to work. If she was colder, angrier, even more brutal than before, well, no one could blame her. She’d lost two-thirds of her soul and there was no bringing them back. 

**Author's Note:**

> God, I struggled with this. Those last paragraphs haunted me. I wrote, erased, and wrote again. Still not sure if I should post it or not, but I did. 
> 
> A few notes on Norse mythology and literature. All the stories mentioned here are early poems -- Beowulf, Song of the Volsungs, the Prose Edda, the Kalevala. The Tale of Finn exists only in a tiny fragment left in the Beowulf manuscript; it's a tragic tale of a feud between tribes; they try marrying off the daughter to the son, but get snowed in over the winter and fighting breaks out. She ends up watching her father, her husband, and her brother's bodies burn on their pyres. Mistletoe oil comes from the story of Loki killing his brother Baldur; the rowan tree is a sacred tree in Norse folklore and can foil any magic. 
> 
> The strikes against Loki are purposeful -- the throat because he uses his voice to seduce, his hands to stop him from casting spells, the gut because it will hurt more than being stabbed in the back like Phil, the eye socket from the line in the Avengers, and the final shot to the brain. He quotes from Deuteronomy 19 there at the end. Clint knows he's going to die and is drawing out time to let the mistletoe oil work. It's violent, pre-planned murder. 
> 
> For those who love Loki, this series of stories are alternative visions of what might have happened ... this one is about wergild and the concept of blood for blood. Imagine a different Loki than the MCU one if that helps. 
> 
> Yes, that's Nick going trout fishing and Barney drinking beers at the end.


End file.
